


Silver in the Dark

by breadthief (trufield)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bondage, Fingering, M/M, Spiders, monsterfic, non/dub con elements due to consumption of aphrodisiac, post orion, unintentional non con sexual touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufield/pseuds/breadthief
Summary: The woods were silent. They were rarely inhabited, which was why Valjean had chosen this location to deposit his savings. Old wives' tales and superstitions kept people at bay, and those brave souls who sought to prove themselves would be easily deterred upon seeing a shadowy figure on the road. Stories of beasts and devils soured any rumour of fortune for most, which was most fortunate for Valjean.Perhaps it was a little darker than he remembered, but he reasoned that was merely a result of the season. The absolute silence on the other hand, was unnatural and unnerving.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20
Collections: Valvert Monster Remix





	Silver in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> for the small monsterfic remix exchange, using a monster we got from the trickord treat halloween discord game
> 
> Thanks to madmerchant for betaing!

At last, Valjean was finally closing in on Montfermeil. After so many months since Fantine’s passing, he hoped her child still resided with the innkeepers of the little town. He just had one more stop to make, and it pained him to delay any further, but it was necessary. He would retrieve some of his buried fortune. He would not be able to provide for Cosette without it.

As he entered the woodland just outside of Chelles where his funds slumbered, he pulled his coat tighter around himself. He was getting too old for daring escapes now, he thought. The chill had not left his bones since he dived into the frigid late-Autumn sea. It was some reassurance that he was believed dead. No one would look for a dead man. This persistent chill of winter in his body told him that he would not escape imprisonment again.

The woods were silent. They were rarely inhabited, which was why Valjean had chosen this location to deposit his savings. Old wives' tales and superstitions kept people at bay, and those brave souls who sought to prove themselves would be easily deterred upon seeing a shadowy figure on the road. Stories of beasts and devils soured any rumour of fortune for most, which was most fortunate for Valjean.

Perhaps it was a little darker than he remembered, but he reasoned that was merely a result of the season. The absolute silence on the other hand, was unnatural and unnerving. 

The deeper he moved into the trees, the darker it became. Surely it was his imagination, nothing more. White, skeletal branches seemed to loom out of the black, reaching for him. He quickened his pace. The faster he was out of there, the sooner he could retrieve Cosette.

A tree stump caught his eye as he passed it, he frowned and doubled back to consider it. Hadn’t he passed this before? Surely not. His sense of direction was nearly faultless, and he had walked this route in his imagination countless times while he laboured in the shipyard, to keep it fresh in his mind. He shook his head, doubt beginning to creep up his spine, and continued on.

He didn’t pass the tree stump again, and was reassured. He was sure that he was almost there, his surroundings were too dark to see clearly, but he knew he was close. He had to be. Then, with his next step, his toe caught on a root, causing him to stumble. 

He reached out instinctively for support, and his hand pushed against something springy and sticky. He gripped it to prevent himself from falling, but when he released his hold, feet firmly on the ground, he found that his hand was stuck fast.

His heart immediately seized with fear at the notion of being captured, before thrumming in his ears, fast and flighty. His free hand closed around his wrist and his heels dug into the ground, as he pulled with all of his great strength. He could feel the skin of his palm pulling painfully. Would it tear away completely before the rope-like substance snapped? Just as he was about to cease his efforts to find the knife in his pocket, he felt the rope give. Another pull, and Valjean was free - although the force of his strength sent him stumbling backwards. Directly into another trap.

It had stuck against his back, and Valjean tried to wriggle out of his coat as quickly as possible, but then he felt it. A jolt through his back. A vibration. Too late did he consider the possibility of a great web, for it had not been a possibility in his mind at all.

Eight bright black eyes appeared in the darkness before him, accompanied by the clicking and snapping of large mandibles, unseen in the thick blanket of night. Valjean felt them well enough as they pierced the skin between shoulder and neck with a sudden snap, tearing through clothing and skin like butter. Terrified and overwhelmed, Valjean promptly fell into unconsciousness.

\-----

Inspector Javert was not satisfied. He ought to be, after reading the report of Jean Valjean's death, but he was not. No body had been found, and although it would be impossible for anyone to survive swimming to shore in those conditions, his subconscious still niggled at him, suspicious of Valjean’s apparent demise. 

Valjean had taken his savings from Paris - a vast sum that had never been unearthed even after his capture. And _unearthed_ was surely the correct term, for an old con like Valjean must have hidden it away, buried it in a hole somewhere like a rodent. He would only hide it if he intended on retrieving it. If he planned on escaping. In addition, there were the bleated pleas of a promise to fetch the whore’s daughter…

Such thoughts had circled in his subconscious for weeks and irritated him greatly. He did not appreciate being driven to distraction, especially by convicts and most certainly by their ghosts. As such, when a report crossed his desk mentioning goods being smuggled from Paris to an area close to Montfermeil, he jumped on it. All he needed to do was detour to the town once he had located the base of operations, make an inquiry or two at the inn, and then he would have peace.

\-----

Life had never been simple or peaceful for Javert. The inn at Montfermeil was a den of thieves that made his skin crawl as soon as he set foot in the door. The owners of the establishment - the Thénardiers - had taken one look at him upon entry and declared their rooms were all taken. Javert had no intention of giving them such custom, but asked for one glass of wine so he could see if the child was there, much to their distaste. 

The malnourished child they used as a maid, had the name ‘Cosette’ barked at her as if she was a dog. Despite the grotesque display, Javert was relieved. Valjean must be deceased not to retrieve the girl from such conditions. She had evidently suffered years of abuse, and Javert would grudgingly admit, if only to himself, that she would likely have done better in Valjean’s care. For all that Valjean was, Javert did not think he could ever harm a child. 

Small, shaking hands poured his wine, and Javert found he could not look the child in the face. He snatched his cup as soon as she had lifted the bottle away, and raised it to his lips. Although he was no connoisseur, the wine could barely be described as such a drink, thin and watery as it was. The single sip he had fixed a harsh, rancid taste to his tongue. He took his leave the very next moment, slamming his still-full cup on the table with his coin, with a mind to report the _Sergeant de Waterloo_ to the local constabulary before he left for Paris.

He took the road out of the town towards Chelles, intending to take a carriage back to Paris from there, but truly it was one last thing to do that would put Valjean out of his mind forever. Javert was not fool enough to expect to find Valjean’s hidden fortune, Valjean himself, or even an empty hole. He expected to find nothing passing along the road, but that would be well. That would be enough.

As Javert entered the woods, he felt unsettled. He had always scoffed at superstitions, so no such ideas entered his head. It was merely cold, nothing more.

The path was gradually swallowed by the darkness and Javert would not admit that he was lost. A noise in the distance stopped him in his tracks, and he realised how eerily silent it had been before. He waited, ears straining, to listen. There it was again. A pained grunt. A soft whimper. Undoubtedly human. Javert drew his pistol and advanced towards the sound. 

There, suspended a foot or so from the ground was none other than Jean Valjean. Caught in a huge, hideous web, but Javert could not bring himself to be concerned about such strange circumstances. It seemed to be the least of his worries.

“Ha!” he barked in triumph, too loud in the silence, making Valjean flinch. “Jean Valjean, caught in a web far more literal than that of your lies, hm?”

It was like an impossible, glorious dream. Not only had he found Valjean, but he had already been prepared for arrest. Javert was nearly giddy with good fortune and the rush of impending victory. It was not until he stepped closer, with something of a confident swagger to his gait, did he realise the condition Valjean was in.

He wore no coat, despite the chill, and his shirt and waistcoat were torn and bloodied beyond repair. Deep wounds were visible between the fragments of his shirt, dark with dried blood that was stark against his pale, blue-tinged complexion. He appeared not to have the strength to lift his head, he struggled to even raise his half-open, bleary eyes. 

Could such a feeble wretch be Jean Valjean? That great brute of a convict Jean Le Cric? Javert shook his head. He would not be fooled again. It could be none other than Valjean. 

He stepped closer for further proof, to perhaps assess his scars and the brand he ought to have received during his last stint in Toulon. But as his eyes swept over his quarry from head to toe and back up, he noticed something so shocking and repulsive, that it made him take half a step back. The snap of twigs under his heel made Valjean flinch and his eyes focus more clearly on Javert.

The filthy convict was _erect_. Displaying himself for all to see outside - it was scandalous, offensive, and yet Javert could not ignore the heat in his own face rushing south at the sight. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and stepped forward again with a firmer step, resulting in another _crack_ of dry bark to break the silence. Valjean flinched again.

“What is this? You have sunk so low as to associate with whores? It wouldn’t surprise me, as you were doing so before your arrest, and now,” Javert snorted in disdain, unable to prevent himself looking down to where Valjean’s trousers tented. “And now you are part of some kind of perverse cult. No king or sympathetic official will save you after this. They will have your head for it.”

Valjean groaned, a pained and pathetic sound. The fearful sound of prey caught and waiting to die. That disgusted Javert more than anything.

“You hear me Valjean?! It will be the block for you!”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Valjean hissed through his teeth. “Please-”

“HAH! And here even like this, you will still beg for more time. No, Valjean, you will get nothing from me but iron.”

“Please, you must be quiet,” Valjean implored in a frantic whisper.

“Whatever for? Your dignity? It is plain you have none. Evidently you get some kind of perverse thrill at the notion of being found in such depravity, so let someone hear me! Let them come. That is what you want. Far less than you deserve, but the rest will come in good time as soon as you’re back where you belong.”

Valjean shook his head, his gaze anguished, as if he had the right to protest his fate.

“First, you must tell me where the rest of your associates are that have trussed you up so for me, I’ll be sure to thank them as I take them in-”

There was no wind, yet the leaves in the trees rustled. Javert’s hand went to his gun. His ears and eyes strained to pick someone out of the darkness. More rustling, now accompanied by the sound of something scraping against bark. Something hard, and more than one of them, skittering in the canopy above. The web that bound Valjean, pale and ethereal in the dark, began to quiver. Valjean’s eyes widened with a primal fear.

“ _Hide._ ”

Javert drew his pistol, and as much as he hated himself for the principle of it - he followed Valjean’s advice. Javert knew when he was outnumbered, and he wasn’t going to suffer the humiliation of sex cultist lunatics getting the drop on him. He ducked behind a tree, pistol cocked, and waited.

What Javert witnessed was something so far out of his experience, it had been impossible for him to imagine. His jurisdiction was the violence, depravity and disobedience of man, not of nature. The huge black shape that crawled its way across the web, down from the canopy and across Valjean, was certainly not human.

He noticed now, the pale criss-crossing of webs continued beyond them, deep into the woodland. How long had that thing resided here to grow to such hideous proportions, and how had no one noticed? Or killed it, or reported it, anything but ignore it until it became a man-eating monster! The great spider settled itself over Valjean’s splayed form, it’s own body being of a comparable size, but its eight horrid legs were twice that length. The creature was covered in thick, wiry hair, and Javert could not imagine having to suffer being in such close quarters with something so disgusting. 

Its bulbous abdomen blocked most of his view of Valjean, but he could still see his face, trapped between the spider and web, trying to lean away as much as he could. His face was scrunched into a pained grimace. How long had he been trapped here? Surely only a day or two at most, or he would have expired from the cold or dehydration. Not that Javert cared of course, he was merely curious.

The creature raised its head up, large, serrated mandibles open, before it struck, lightning-quick, sinking them into Valjean’s breast. He did not cry out in pain, merely shuddered, and in a matter of moments the tension in his face loosened and his body hung slack in the embrace of the web. 

Javert was suddenly struck by the absurd fear that Valjean was dead, until he groaned softly when he was released and his blood flowed sluggishly from the fresh wounds. At least that explained why he had been so weakened, and how he had been trapped despite his great strength. The creature must have been dosing him with venom to keep him placated, easy prey. Valjean’s body carried the evidence of numerous previous bites, so why hadn’t the beast eaten him yet?

The mandibles clicked and clacked together again, but repeatedly this time, like some kind of communication. The spider rapidly skittered backwards onto the ground, head, thorax, and front four legs raised. Javert’s grip tightened on his gun. He should really shoot the damn thing but with the speed it could move, if he missed, he was likely to make it onto the dinner menu too. 

He hunkered down in his hiding place, waiting for any useful opportunity, and was drawn to watch the nightmarish display unfold in sick fascination. The spider clicked at Valjean again, and prodded its pointed foot firmly between his legs. 

Valjean groaned in anguished sort of way, it certainly did not seem to be a sound derived from pleasure. Javert would refuse to recognise his disappointment at this observation, but his throat constricted as he wondered what Valjean might sound like in the throes of passion. He swallowed, focusing on the spider in case it was able to detect such a small noise.

The creature was still focused on Valjean, clicking rapidly. If Javert thought arachnids were capable of emotion, he would say it was considerably annoyed. It began jabbing violently at the fork of Valjean's trousers, and then clawing at the button fastenings on the left side. Some of the buttons must have come loose, as the tip of the ugly, spindly leg disappeared into the fabric. 

Valjean writhed, unable to distance himself, and powerless to do anything. Javert's cock jerked feebly, sealed away as it was. Oh, to have Valjean in his power like that! So desperate and anguished, his powerful build displayed clearly yet so vulnerable without his strength behind it. A wild beast, tamed to submission, his control revoked. 

The spider withdrew, clicking softly, and despite the dim conditions, Javert was still close enough to observe the sheen of pale fluid on that ghastly limb. Perhaps he was beginning to project onto the monster, but its frustration seemed to have given way to excitement. Its feet skittered about and the noises it produced had become quieter than before, yet still with the same rapidity.

It curved its abdomen forward beneath itself, and brought Valjean's stolen pleasure to its tip. A string of its own pale, sticky substance was produced over Valjean's, and the creature raised its limb back towards Valjean, extending the line of web, before sticking it across his chest.

An absurd notion struck Javert that almost made him laugh aloud at its ridiculousness. Did it think Valjean was trying to produce a web? Was it trying to instruct him? Had it expected a meal, discovered this feature, and somehow concluded its quarry must be a large, pitifully deformed spider? Javert supposed the creature didn't have any others of its kind big enough to mate with, so took whatever opportunity it could get. 

This impossible theory meant that Valjean’s shameful condition must have been a side effect of the venom that weakened him. He had effectively been drugged and had no control over his reactions whatsoever. 

The spider jabbed him once again, more harshly than before, and Valjean gasped in pain. It appeared the creature's patience had reached its end. It reared back, its torturous mouthparts level with Valjean’s neck.

A shot split through the silence of the woods, the sudden burst of sound near deafening. Javert's smoking pistol was clasped tightly in his hand and he was on his feet. He would not have been able to say when he decided he would fire - it had been instinctive. A response learned and refined from experiencing countless potentially life-threatening situations, courtesy of his line of work. 

He had shot into its inflated abdomen. A large target that was impossible to miss, but now it was moving, turning and advancing on him in one rapid motion. No matter the unholy speed of the thing, all legs and eyes and darkness, Javert’s trigger finger was quicker. 

A direct hit to its face, making it rear up. It had too many damn eyes anyway, in Javert’s opinion, it could do with losing a few. He stumbled back as it lunged, mandibles snapping in fury. He dropped his pistol, now useless if he didn't have the time to reload, and drew his second. 

The third shot rang out as Javert’s back hit the floor, his finger squeezing on reflex. Thankfully, he did not have to aim to hit his mark as it had sprung close enough to prepare to sink its mandibles into his waist. He couldn't even be certain where the bullet had struck, but enough damage had been done to deter the creature. It was gone like a great shadow being swept aside as the moon rose, up into the trees, almost faster than Javert could blink.

He huffed out an exhale, resting the back of his head against the ground, attempting to settle his nerves. He focused on the canopy above, grip still tight on the butt of his pistol, but the trees remained still and silent.

"... Javert?"

A mortifying and entirely involuntary groan fell from Javert's lips, Valjean's horse and husky voice going straight to his cock, reminding him how painfully hard this insane experience had left him. He sat up to glare at Valjean and hopefully brush his vocalisation off as something else, but the sight he was met with struck him dumb.

The spider had successfully managed to tear the left fastenings of Valjean’s trousers open, and his half-hard cock jutted forward at Javert, almost as an invitation. Of course such clumsy, rudimentary touches had not brought Valjean to his climax, and so he remained trussed up and delectable. The cold continued to make him wilt, even as Javert watched, but then their eyes met.

"Javert…" Valjean murmured again, shamed and coy and pleading, turning his face away even as his cock gave a hopeful twitch in Javert's direction.

Valjean certainly knew. He must. He would undoubtedly use this evidence of Javert's perversion to blackmail him. If he made Valjean complicit, he thought wildly, he would not be able to say anything.

Javert lunged forward, close enough that his teeth were almost at Valjean's neck, and shoved his pistol up firmly beneath his jaw. One shot left. He could not say whether the shudder that ran through Valjean was due to the cold metal, that it was still hot from firing, or due to the potential of his imminent demise.

Javert's other hand found Valjean's breast of its own accord, and he could feel the chill of his skin even through the worn leather of his glove. There came a sharp hiss above Javert’s ear, and he looked down to find he had pressed against Valjean’s freshest wound, smearing dark blood over his lily-white chest. 

He had never known Valjean to be so pale. In the prison yard the skin of convicts was tanned, blistered and cracked by the sun, dried and chapped by the wind. That unrelenting sun in the warmer months baked into their flesh as a brand of its own that they would carry for life. Madeleine's complexion might have been slightly tan, but he was well known to have begun as a labourer, and his experience and knowledge of working the land was irrefutable. All but his face and hands had been swathed in distracting, yet mild, finery and now it was brought sharply to Javert’s attention that Valjean had kept himself in the shade in all the years since Toulon.

The thing Valjean had hidden for so much longer than his fortune: his body, now bared for only Javert to see and judge. The notion might have been intoxicating if Javert wasn't already so heady from the vision of Valjean, pale as the silk that held him, glowing in the scant moonlight. It should be repulsive, this vision of purity marred by lust and violence. Valjean was far from pure, far from innocent, and yet it was alluring.

Javert's hand continued to roam under his gaze - feeling, squeezing, groping; firm muscle, soft skin and smooth scars. He wouldn't allow himself to remove the glove, direct contact would damn him for certain, but he couldn't ignore his desire to feel the territory of Valjean’s body beneath his own skin. The glove remained, and Valjean shivered beneath it.

Javert's hand had reached Valjean's belly that had unexpectedly softened with age. It was only natural, of course, but Javert had still envisaged the old con to be entirely made up of solid, sturdy muscle. Javert did not doubt there was strength still contained beneath that slightly sagging skin.

The hair that spread over his chest and dusted over the rest of him in gentle curls, was as white as the hair on his head. Javert had not found the sudden and dramatic change at all remarkable when he had first become aware of it, believing it to all be part of a disguise and hurried escape plan. But now he wondered if all of his hair, down to the thick nest between his legs, had paled at the very same moment. It was rather stunning, and unable to bear it any longer, Javert’s hand wrapped around Valjean’s shaft.

The anguished groan that fell from Valjean’s lips, lanced straight through Javert's body, setting him alight. It was vastly different to the sounds the spider had forced from him - this was the agony of desire, of _want,_ the blind, frantic begging of _need._ Valjean’s hips bucked towards him, and his cock, now flushed fully once more, twitched in Javert's firm grasp. 

Valjean might not have been particularly impressive in his length, but there was a weight and girth to him that made Javert ache and his pulse pound faster in his ears. He slowly pulled up, from base to tip, as Valjean's tremors travelled along each thread of the web. Javert slipped his hand free completely, diving underneath to cup Valjean's heavy testicles. 

These _were_ impressive, but also affected by age, the skin wrinkled and sagging, but they were pleasing to the touch. To cup and squeeze and knead as Valjean fidgeted as much as his restraints would allow. He must have been a prime specimen in his youth, and Javert suddenly thought, with a surge of possessive righteousness, that it was proper no one had been allowed to witness it.

He looked up to still find Valjean’s face turned from him, his eyes squeezed shut, and his lip trapped between his teeth. Javert marvelled that he had breathed life into this figure of perfection, crafted from cold marble. A flush had spread from his reddened face, down his neck and chest. His movements were fluid and helpless, not stiffly crafted to conceal. Javert’s mouth found the juncture between that thick, sturdy neck and strong, rounded shoulder.

Javert didn't have the first idea of what he was doing, but it didn't matter, he couldn't form any thought at all. He pressed opened mouthed kisses against chilled skin, sucked at the powerful pulse in his neck, and imprinted broken crescents with his teeth. His hand was still preoccupied with Valjean’s testicles, its attention unrelenting, firm and obsessive. When he drew his mouth away, he couldn't hold back the deep groan at the sight of that thick, neglected cock, slowly weeping its pleasure, and the shimmer of teardrops that clung to Valjean's fair lashes.

Javert captured his mouth this time, and it immediately fell open, offering delightful softness and warmth. Valjean was so loose and submissive. Welcoming. Javert lost himself, not coherent enough to be concerned if he was falling into damnation. Into the bodies and beds of convicts, propelling himself into the kind of fate he had always strove to avoid.

A thunderous _bang_ tore them apart, Javert leaped back, his heart lodged in his throat and his veins flooded with panic. He had dropped his fucking gun. The impact of hitting the ground had made it discharge. A complete rookie manoeuvre, and the only time Javert had ever been so dangerously foolish in his life. He could've killed himself with such lack of focus!

He suddenly turned back to Valjean, concerned the stray bullet had hit him instead. Murder was murder, no matter the victim, and Javert _had_ held the barrel to Valjean's throat. 

Valjean's eyes were wide and terrified, but the pupils were still blown with whatever aphrodisiac properties the venom contained. Javert stepped forward and grabbed him firmly by the jaw. 

"Are you hurt?" He snapped. "More than you already were."

Valjean's body shook violently, and Javert grew wary of the juddering web. They needed to leave that cursed place, but he couldn't bring Valjean in when he was in such a condition. Valjean’s expression remained unchanged and unfocused. 

"Valjean!"

Javert shook him for good measure, and Valjean blinked rapidly. For the first time since Javert had encroached upon his person, Valjean looked at him. Javert swallowed under his bewildered stare, that was uncomfortably close to an expression of naïve innocence. 

There was no turning back from what had already occurred. If Javert was fortunate, the venom would make Valjean recall these incidents as a vague fever dream. The pressing fact was that they could not leave like this. They could not hide their bodies and desires, and make their way to the nearest town, it would be excruciating. Particularly with Valjean clothed in such rags. Best to get this madness out of the system and continue with a clear head. 

One thing was certain: whatever he did, Javert needed to be quick about it. The spider, wherever it was, would surely be tempted by the tremors of the web. Javert could feebly think that perhaps the accidental shot had reminded it of the danger and kept it at bay for a bit longer. 

His hands went to his own trousers, hurriedly unfastening the buttons. He could not stain his uniform, especially not here, when he would have no opportunity to clean it any time soon. He could not bring himself to look at Valjean's face again, but he knew it would once again be turned away in horror and shame. 

Javert stepped forward, legs either side of Valjean's, and pressed his rigid cock against that thick, firm thigh. He groaned and began to roll his hips, dragging his sensitive flesh over rough wool. The less skin-on-skin contact the better, the easier it was to convince himself that this was not intimacy. Yet he could not prevent his lips from tasting the sweat at Valjean's neck.

His thrusts became urgent in an embarrassingly short amount of time, but his intention had been to get this nightmare over with, so he didn't feel this deficiency too acutely. He kissed Valjean with greater force and desperation, losing himself in that dangerous territory once again, as he hooked his arm around Valjean's broad shoulders for better support. If Valjean wasn't suspended slightly higher than Javert's stature, Javert imagined it would be quite pleasing to loom over Valjean's shorter frame. Certainly more comfortable. 

His teeth sank into the soft skin of Valjean’s neck to muffle any noise he couldn’t control as he spilled himself, hips jerking sporadically, heavy breaths puffing from his nose. As soon as it was done, he stepped back, the horror truly beginning to settle in his mind and any close contact suddenly unbearable. He stumbled and nearly slipped on the carpet of damp, mulched leaves. 

His arm was stuck.

His forearm was stuck between Valjean’s neck and the web. Valjean must have leaned his head back, as surely this could only be his fault. When he had tried to step away, he had released his grip on Valjean’s shoulder, and consequently got the back of his hand stuck too.

It wasn’t a disaster, he thought as he hurriedly tucked his cock away, he just had to work his hand out of the glove…

“Are you… stuck?” Valjean whispered, his voice fragile and small.

“No. It’s just a matter of getting out of this glove and my coat sleeve. It’s quite simple.”

Javert frowned as he wriggled and flexed his fingers.

“It sounds rather difficult to do one-handed…”

“Then don’t distract me. I'm not going to risk using my other hand when I won't be able to see what I'm doing.”

Javert had never been a patient man when he wasn't in control, and quickly grew frustrated at his lack of progress. He would pull instead, tearing the glove apart to free himself. It would be unfortunate to lose it, but it was preferable to losing his life if the spider returned.

Instinctively, he braced his foot against the surface he was pulling away from to get more force behind the pull. This, of course, stuck the sole of his boot firmly to the web too. Javert hissed in pure hatred at the foul substance.

He hopped and successfully managed to slip his foot free, and immediately wondered if that had been the best idea as the damp immediately soaked into his stocking once his foot was back on solid ground.

“Um…” there was a peculiar warble to Valjean’s voice, and Javert sincerely hoped he was not on the verge of _laughing._ “I had a knife in my… oh.”

When Javert looked at him, Valjean’s forlorn gaze was directed at the mangled scraps of his coat on the floor.

“I don’t suppose you could reach it though.”

“You know,” Javert growled through gritted teeth. “It's far worse to be given knowledge you cannot _utilise_.” 

"Apologies. I am… not thinking quite clearly."

"Evidently."

Javert returned to his mission of extracting his hand. It had been hard enough for him to get gloves he could afford that fitted his large hands, and now he was cursed by how tightly they clung him. 

"I, um, do have another blade…"

"Is it within reach?"

"Ah. I believe it might be."

Javert leaned back to glower at him. "Then why didn't you speak up before? Come, where is it, we don't have all night."

"It's… ah…"

"Out with it, man! Even you must believe coming into my custody is preferable to remaining here, stop dallying!"

"It's- it's on my person, certainly."

Javert rolled his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose. "I will not indulge in guessing games with you. Tell me plainly and immediately before I go mad."

Valjean swallowed. "It is, in fact, _within_ my person."

"Your-" Javert gulped in turn at the implication. "You keep a knife up your ass?"

"Only for emergencies, you understand," Valjean explained rapidly, as if this was a perfectly reasonable thing. "And it's a small blade, hidden in a hollowed out sou."

A silence stretched out between them for long seconds. The leaves rustled in the wind, and Javert felt Valjean jump.

"It's small, but it ought to do the trick."

"And I should, hm, get it, then?" Javert muttered.

"Unfortunately it's impossible for me to do so myself, so I'm afraid you must. But I-"

"But what?" Javert snapped.

"Well, after what has transpired, I did not expect you to find this task _completely_ objectionable…"

"You don't know anything," Javert hissed, getting his free hand between Valjean's legs. 

His cock was still in need, Javert’s wrist dragged across the wetness of its desperation, but he merely gritted his teeth and vowed not to get distracted. He had already got himself into enough trouble with that.

It was difficult, not being able to see what he was doing and probing blindly, poking past Valjean's testicles and causing him to flinch. Perhaps they were sore from the abuse they had suffered under that hand, brushing past so furtively where before it had been demanding.

He grunted as he tried to bend down more, and slid his finger into the cleft of Valjean’s ass. He was glad for his gloves in this venture, at least - although his sense of touch would certainly have helped in identifying _what_ exactly he was poking. Valjeans soft gasp of breath told him when he was in the right region though, and he pressed his finger, trying to gain entry. 

It took some shifting, and some wriggling from Valjean, but suddenly Javert did manage to push into the tight heat of Valjean’s body.

"Javert-" Valjean hissed, and Javert shook himself, realising he had lost himself for a moment at the sensation. "Quickly."

Ordinarily, Javert would not have abided orders from a convict, and Valjean would have had to have suffered a lecture about it, but in this instance, Valjean was unfortunately correct. He pushed deeper and Valjean's body squirmed against him. What torture! Surely Javert had slipped into Hell on his way from Montfermeil - where else had monstrous spiders and devilishly alluring Valjeans?

His fingertip bumped against something solid, drawing a gasp from Valjean. 

"Don't- don't push it deeper. You need to grab it between two fingers."

"I _know,_ " Javert growled, wrenching his finger back out, slightly smug at the choked noise of discomfort Valjean made in response.

He brought the second finger by the side of the first, and pushed back in. Javert could feel Valjean’s thigh trembling against his arm, his hot breath fanning across his jaw. Javert thought he had the coin secured between the edges of both fingertips, he dragged back slightly to release and get a better grip, but when he did so a small whine tried to crawl out of Valjean’s throat before he cut it off prematurely.

His trembling wasn't entirely as a result of discomfort then.

Javert’s fascination caused him to crook his fingers and press again. A breath shuddered in Valjean's heaving chest so Javert moved again, a small back-and-forth, that had the most angelic noise tumbling from Valjean’s mouth. Sweet, unguarded pleasure. All for Javert's taking.

He grew more forceful and more rapid with his strokes, Valjean trying in vain to push down against him, soft moans taken forcibly from him, fogging in the frozen air. Valjean wasn't cold now, at least, he was so hot inside that Javert didn't want to leave.

The coin slipped from him, and Javert hissed out a curse. He needed to retrieve it and be done with this madness. He fumbled around, trying to gain purchase again, hoping desperately he wouldn't shove it too far, or that it wouldn't slip from him once extracted. If that happened, there would be no hope of escape.

After all of Javert’s catastrophic failings since he entered this woodland, perhaps his death would be more welcome than having to deal with the consequences of Valjean’s newfound knowledge of him. Unfortunately, this all relied on the dexterity of two fingers on his non-dominant hand, contorted awkwardly between Valjean’s body and the bunched fabric of his trousers .

The cold began to creep in once more and shadows shifted in his periphery. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues) Log in to view. 




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